"STOP YELLING!!!" Or, Another Fine Moment of Parental Restraint and Dignity.

I'm generally not much of a yeller. Sure I raise my voice from time to time when frustrated (or reading transcripts from Toronto City Hall), but I was raised by a shouter, and I don't like the way it makes me feel to be on either end of the expostulating.

Then I became a parent. And suddenly, years of gazing with detached disapproval at shrieking mothers and fathers rightfully slammed me full in the face. with a ferocity akin to Toronto Mayor Rob Ford's political belly-flop courtesy of the crack we call cocaine.

To give myself a little credit, yelling is still a rarity in our home -- at least from the parental side of the fence. I can generally make my point known with a quick correction or time-out -- saving the nuclear option of Thomas the Tank Engine withdrawal for the really big no-nos. But sometimes... ugh... sometimes it just all comes vomiting out, as though my mother herself has been hiding in my lungs for the past three decades, waiting to bring her throaty brand of screeching retribution down upon a whole new generation of innocents.

Not my actual Mother. She had curlier hair.

I have two big triggers when it comes to being pissed off. Okay, three if you count crack-smoking misogynist neo-cons whose hatred of left-leaning homosexuals is only surpassed by their love of KFC. But when it comes to my kid, I'm really challenged by aggression and unkindness.

What, aggression and unkindness? In a three-year-old??? How can that even be possible, you exclaim!

Well, my friends, it's more than possible. You see, as the toddler brain develops, it starts to move past the two-year-old tantrums that are generally sparked by immediate frustration, denial and general crankyness.  However, when the little darlings hit three, different parts of their wee brains suddenly start communicating with each other for the first time. And as the hippocampus and the amygdala start comparing notes, they begin to realize how well and truly fucked they are in the general scheme of things.

Finally the child understands that, not only do the parents control every facet of their burgeoning, curiousity-driven lives, but that they themselves could, in theory, actually refuse to easily accommodate said control. The knowledge that this rebellion would (one hopes) lead to correction and behavioral consequences can then blossom into that most vivid and animated flowers of childhood reaction: the Temper Tantrum.

Pre-Schooler N is actually fairly mild on the tantrum scale. There have been no meltdowns on the grocery store floor, embarrassing screaming jags at the doctor's office or hysterical hissy fits that magically seem to fill an entire afternoon. No, his outbursts are generally brief and fairly easy to handle. But sometimes it just all gets a bit much.

My own growing frustration with the Thoroughly Thwarted Threes came to a head a few weeks ago, after being shouted at by my darling child for nearly half-an-hour. In all fairness to his chagrin, I had just turned off the Scooby-Doo chase scene music we had both been so enjoying during bath time, but it was time to get ready for bed and I had given ample warning with due diligence.

Hell, I could've penciled it in three weeks ago and he still would have completely lost his shit.

So I toweled him off, applied lotion, helped him into his jammies and began choosing a bedtime story, while he kept up an admirable wail of astonishing laryngeal tenacity. Finally, inevitably, my last gay nerve snapped with a resounding "Oh No You Di'int!"

"STOP YELLING!!!"  I bellowed.

Not actually me. I have curlier hair too.

The irony of this ludicrous response was so palpable I could have used it as a cheap and environmentally-responsible alternative to hair gel. I was yelling at my child for yelling. Good god.

Unfortunately, it worked. Completely. He was silent... either from shock or a sense of complete and utter contempt for my age-adjacent behaviour. Then, worst still, he went to sleep. Quietly. Without whining or complaint.

I apologized to him the next morning, explaining that I had been feeling frustrated and sad that he was yelling at me, and promising that I would be very careful in the future to try not to yell at him again. He was quite cheerful about the whole episode, giving me a quick-if-somewhat-befuddled "Okay!" before returning to his ongoing masquerade as the monster that lives in the laundry basket.  But I was actually quite shaken.

The awful truth is that yelling often gets us what we want. If we yell loud enough, and long enough, the hapless recipient(s) of our angst will frequently capitulate to our demands just to shut us up. And that is a lesson I cannot afford to teach my son. Because one day he will yell louder than me, or yell at the wrong person, or yell himself out of school, out of a job, out of a relationship. All because I indulged in an outmoded form of communication that was a big part of my own wreckage of a childhood.

So a new way must be found. For one thing, I've stopped arguing with him. I state when something is going to happen, and that's it. If he needs to protest, talk about it, complain about it, that's fine. He's using words and I'm okay with that. But my word stands. I may be a relatively benevolent dictator, but Stalin ain't got nothin' on me when it comes to bedtime. So far, this seems to be yielding a largely positive response, albeit with some backsliding.

This morning, he did something he hasn't done for quite some time, in response to Professor D's firm reminder that the departure time for daycare was nigh. He raised his hand, as though to hit. He didn't actually do it, but I wouldn't have put it past him if things had escalated.

At least my response was in measured tones. "Go to your room," I said calmly, as he bawled out his frustration. "Come out when you're ready to be calm and apologize." It took him about 30 seconds to return, sweetly apologetic and ready for a make-up cuddle. And I felt good that I hadn't allowed my inner mother to claw her way out of my gullet in her well-remembered wave of sound and fury. I do know she's still there, waiting for her chance, though. And I know that she will need the occasional release from the fetters of responsible human behaviour.

Which largely explains why I have begun to look forward to the afternoon deluge of telemarketing calls, with something akin to ravenous hunger and gleeful anticipation.

Coz in the world of Super Steam Duct-Cleaning and This Week's Unbeatable Offer, all bets are off baby.